3 The Housewife Assassin's Killer Christmas Tips Page 4

  “From the moment that sadistic bastard Muammar Gaddafi was caught squealing like a piggy in a sewer pipe, we knew this day would come,” Ryan starts. “It’s no secret that he stockpiled twenty thousand surface-to-air missiles—mostly Russian SA-24s, and some SA-7s.”

  Both of these weapons are highly accurate MANPADS. That is, man-portable air-defense systems, which are easily fired from shoulder launchers.

  “I was under the impression that the location of many of these arms caches had been previously identified by satellite surveillance and secured when Tripoli fell,” Jack says.

  Ryan nods. “Unfortunately, our assets in the Middle East are still scrambling to confiscate as many as they can. But a few of the hideaways had already been ‘liberated’ by rebel forces. The ransom for these arms is high. It may cost the US up to forty million to get our hands on them. You know the game. The toys go to the bidder with the deepest pockets.”

  Jack frowns. “I guess we all know who that is. The Quorum.”

  Ryan nods. “I’m afraid so.”

  Not good. The Quorum is made up of rogue operatives who have defected from a myriad of covert agencies. Acme knows it well, since one of its assassins defected to the Quorum: my soon-to-be ex-husband, Carl.

  So far, it’s been one messy divorce. But anyone who doesn’t kill you (in my case, Carl, who’s shot me, and once tossed me over a railing into the ocean) makes you stronger, right?

  Jack doesn’t like the news any more than I do. “Let me guess. The Quorum has sold off portions of it to the AQIM—the Al Qaeda cells in the Islamic Maghreb—and Somalia’s Al Shabaab.”

  “Yep, sales to both organizations have been confirmed,” Arnie chimes in. “And a ship carrying several cargo containers of MANPADs also ended up in Boko Haram, in Nigeria.”

  “Right now, we’re sweating the whereabouts of another stash,” Ryan continues. “Gaddafi tolerated his country’s Christians, but just barely. One anti-Gaddafi militia was made up of Libyan Catholics, many of Italian descent. This particular rebel group secured one of the larger munitions depots. But now that the euphoria of the Arab Spring is over with, secular tolerance is being tamped down by radical Muslim factions. The Christian minorities are worried that things may be just as bad, if not worse, than what they endured under Gaddafi. Many Christians have already emigrated out of the country.”

  His eyes seek out Emma, and she blushes. “Fortunately, Acme—well, specifically, Emma—picked up chatter on the whereabouts of one particular shipment from that warehouse. Apparently, the Catholic rebel leader used it to buy his family’s safe passage out of Libya. But his wife felt guilty enough to confess this to her priest, along with everything she knew about that shipment’s final destination. She left the priest with a thumb drive detailing the items in the munitions cache. It’s to be delivered here stateside, sometime in the coming weeks. At this point, we can presume the target is a commercial airport. We’re guessing the attack will take place on or before Christmas.”

  I’m stunned. “Oh my God, just in time for all the travel taking place during the holidays!”

  “Exactly,” Ryan interjects. “Before the rebel and his wife could leave Libya, their buyer had them tortured and killed. Our only hope is the priest, Father Michelangelo Casari. We’ve recently discovered he was transferred here within the Los Angeles archdiocese. But we need to get to him first before the Quorum learns of his whereabouts.” He turns to Jack. “Jack, I need you here to pull together some of your Middle Eastern resources for some deeper reconnaissance.”

  Jack starts to object, then pauses. I know he feels torn. But he’d be the first to admit his contacts in that part of the world are unparalleled in the industry. “Donna, that puts you up at bat. If you can get him to hand over the intel, we’ll be able to put the rest of the pieces of this mission in play. The clock is ticking, folks, so let’s get moving.”

  By the time our meeting breaks up, Cheever, Morton and Trevor have already found their way home. On a Monday evening after homework, Mary can usually be found on the couch, singing along with the Glee cast, but not tonight. She’s already turned in for the night.

  Standing in the middle of the upstairs hallway, I can hear sobs coming from both my daughters’ bedrooms. A rap on Mary’s door brings only silence. Okay, I get it. She’s not ready to talk.

  When I tap on Trisha’s, she opens it wide.

  I live for her hugs. There is no greater high than watching the smile grow on your child’s face when she realizes you’ve come for her and then jumps into your arms and holds onto you, as if she’ll never let you go.

  But no, Trisha is not smiling. Her eyes glisten from the tears which have yet to follow the damp path down her plump cheeks.

  Despite my outstretched arms, she holds her ground, arms crossed.

  I bend down, so that we’re eye to eye. “Honey, Daddy told me you’re upset. What’s wrong?”

  “You lied to me, Mommy.”

  Guilty as charged, I’m sure. But I’m a parent, so that’s par for the course. Still, I wrack my brain, wondering which tiny white lie (told, I’m sure, to protect her innocence) has submerged me in the roiling hot emotions, which every mother eventually finds herself parboiled. “I lied… about what, sweetie?”

  She collapses at my feet. “About Santa! He doesn’t exist!”

  Uh-oh.

  I pat her head gently. “Where did you hear that?” From Mary, or Jeff? For their sakes, I hope not, since I told both of them I’d be the one to tell Trisha, when the time came.

  I can barely hear her whisper: “Janie told me.”

  “Janie?”

  Wait until I get hold of Babette Breck, Janie’s mother!

  Jonah, Janie’s recently deceased father, was one of the world’s richest men. He made his wealth in munitions sales. He also happened to be a sadistic womanizer who trafficked in human sex slaves. But because of his political ties and the fact that his role as one of the Quorum’s thirteen titular heads is still classified intel, he’ll be remembered as a generous philanthropist as opposed to the devil he really was.

  The day the Brecks moved into Hilldale, Penelope muttered, “There goes the neighborhood.”

  Little did she know how right she was.

  Considering all I know about Jonah, you’d think Babette would have the good sense to zip Janie’s lips when it comes to one of life’s best-kept secrets, wouldn’t you?

  Before I can flip into spin cycle, I need more reconnaissance. “What exactly did Janie tell you?”

  “She said parents are the ones who really buy us all the toys, and that all of you are in cahoots and made up a jolly fat man called Santa, so that kids won’t ask for toys all year round!” Trisha’s words come out in fits and gulps. “Mommy, are you in a cahoot, too?”

  How do I answer her?

  Yes, of course I’m in a cahoot!

  I’ve perpetrated this ruse because that’s what we parents do this time of year. Be it a jolly old elf, a tree covered in lights and tinsel, a child in a manger, a miraculous eight days of light provided by a single day’s supply of oil, or a month to make a pilgrimage to Mecca, we have to believe in something, for God’s sake!

  If we don’t have faith, we have nothing.

  But how do I explain this to a five-year-old?

  If she feels deceived about who brings the toys, I guess next she’ll be questioning whether a bunny brings the chocolate she finds in her Easter basket.

  I knew this day would come, but I hadn’t counted on it happening so soon.

  Time to punt. “I don’t think ‘cahoot’ is the right word, Trisha. I’d say that many parents introduce their children to the tradition of Santa Claus because he encourages boys and girls to be good all year round, which is why they deserve at least one special gift at Christmas.”

  Trisha’s face flickers through a baker’s dozen emotions. “I… I guess that makes sense, but… Oh, I don’t know! Janie says if Santa is really making all those toys, how can he spend his
day going from mall to mall?”

  Unlike her mother, Babette, nothing gets by Janie. I’ve got to nip this in the bud, like now. “Just think, Trisha. If he’s doesn’t ask the children what they want, how will he know which toys to drop at their homes on Christmas Eve?”

  I can tell Trisha is wavering, that she wants to believe what she has just heard.

  Am I wrong to want her to believe it, too?

  “Sweetie, if it would help, I’ll take you to the mall so that you can meet with Santa and talk to him about it.”

  She nods adamantly. “Can we go tomorrow?”

  “Of course! Right after school.”

  If the Hilldale Mall Santa is willing to play along, there a ten spot in it for him.

  For me, it’s worth every penny. Trisha is my youngest. The day she quits believing in Santa is one more milestone in her life. Sorry, but I’m just not ready for her to reach it.

  Not yet, anyway.

  My children are growing up much too quickly.

  Just what I need, one more part of life out of my control.

  Chapter 5

  Making the Holidays Your Own

  Bah, humbug!

  Not in the holiday spirit? One way to shake the doldrums is to create a holiday tradition unique to your family.

  For example, you can collaborate on your very own Christmas carol!

  Seriously, it’s not that hard! Just follow this pattern:

  Intro, verse, verse, chorus, break; verse, verse, break; bridge, breakout.

  See? Easy, peasy!

  After working through two or three verses which express your prayers of thanks (example: Dad avoided the drunk tank, little Tommy didn’t fail the fifth grade again) and hopes for the coming year (a raise, some much needed weight loss, peace for all mankind, yada yada), you’ll move onto the chorus, which crescendos into a catchy ditty about Santa, snow, stars, elves, or whatever in four-part harmony.

  If you don’t murder each other by the time the song is completed and up on YouTube, you’ve witnessed the biggest Christmas miracle of all: a family collaboration!

  (Side note: Make sure the copyright is in your name, and register the song with ASCAP so the royalties go to you, as opposed to that drunk you married or the kids who whined and snickered all the way through the process. And yes, you can leave all the money you make on this sure-fire hit to your cat.)

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” I choke up as I whisper this to the priest on the other side of the confessional booth inside Saint Basil’s Church in downtown Los Angeles.

  The lump in my throat has nothing to do with what I’m about to say, and everything to do with what I had for breakfast—boulder-heavy scones made by Mary, who just so happens to be baking-challenged. What a mother won’t do to encourage their children toward feats of domestic glory.

  “How long has it been since your last confession, Sister?” Father Michelangelo Casari’s English is excellent for a Libyan of Italian descent.

  His eyesight isn’t so bad, either. I can barely make him out through the wooden grill that separates us, but obviously, he can see the nun’s wimple on my head.

  “Too long, Father. Since the twenty-seventh day of October, 2011.”

  Father Casari stifles a gasp. Of course, he would recognize that date. Forty-five of his devout parishioners—all part of the anti-Gaddafi rebel faction which had secured the arms cache that may now be stateside—disappeared that day, right after communion at his church, St. Francis of Tripoli.

  Among them was Allegra Monticello, who had begun her confession by divulging how and why her husband was able to secure their safe passage out of the country and ended it with a teary prayer for innocent lives soon to be lost at her expense.

  Her penance came with the thumb drive she handed over to Father Casari. On it are files that verify everything she told him.

  No doubt it has caused Father Casari many sleepless nights. “I pray for the souls of those lost on that day.” This code phrase tells him I’m here to give him absolution for any guilt he may have with his own confession about Allegra.

  He cocks his head suspiciously. “I was not expecting a nun to do the pickup.”

  “Neither are your enemies. But they’re onto you, so the sooner you can hand it over to me, the better.” I don’t like the way he’s stalling. Time’s a-wasting. Besides, this wool habit is itchy. That’s what I get for putting it over bra and panties without a T-shirt.

  He reaches under his collar and pulls out a silver thumb drive, hanging from a thin silver chain.

  He’s about to hand it to me through the wood grille that separates us when his head slams into the wall to his right, forced there by a bullet from a gun with a silencer, which now has now splattered his blood and brain matter all over his colorful silk vestments.

  After my shock and awe, I lunge forward to grab what I came for, but the grille is too strong for me to rip off, let alone punch through it. I turn to open the confessional’s door, but Father Casari’s assassin was smart enough to lock it from the outside.

  I struggle with it, but I’m too late. Two slim, hot pink-tipped fingers pluck the thumb drive from his dead hand before I have a chance to kick open the door.

  By the time I do, the nun with the gun is on the run.

  The bullet from my Glock whizzes by her wimple. She ducks and rolls, shooting off a round of her own. I kill the light, literally, when one of my bullets pierces the chandelier hanging over her head. It falls, winging her shoulder. As she drops her gun, she shouts out a stream of Slavic curses.

  “Naughty nun,” I taunt her as I make my way over to her, my gun pointed at her heart. “Do you know how many Hail Marys that’ll cost you?”

  The sound of the parish’s school children caroling down the hall has me pausing just long enough for her to leap behind a pew and scramble for her gun.

  Too late. I kick it out of her way.

  But this gives her the opportunity to grab my ankle. When I stomp on her wrist with my free foot, she grunts in pain, then rolls out of the way. She gets up in time to feel my side kick to her gut, which sends her toppling over another pew.

  When I scurry over it going after her, I see it, on the floor, halfway between both of us.

  The thumb drive.

  We circle each other slowly, assessing for weaknesses. She takes the first punch, but I block it. My front kick misses her by inches. She jabs with a closed fist, but I move quickly out of the way. Her pale gray eyes blaze in anger. She realizes we’re well matched.

  We freeze as the carolers walk up the aisle. With eyes downcast, we kneel in the pew together and pray.

  Just as the last caroler strolls off, I hit her with a jab to her side. By the time she’s on her feet, I am, too, but barely. A side-winding kick puts me back on my ass.

  A sneeze from a parishioner lighting candles has her turning her head, just slightly.

  That’s my chance. I roll over, grab the thumb drive, jump up, and fly out the door.

  Two blocks later, I’ve ducked into a barbershop. I watch from behind an old copy of Penthouse as she runs by the window, angry and frantic.

  The barber doesn’t even look up from the guy whose hair he’s cutting when he asks, “Shave and a haircut?”

  I pull up the habit and hold out my legs. Stubble does not become me. Jeez, how long has it been?

  “Yeah, a shave sounds nice,” I say. “But I’ll skip the cut.”

  Hearing my voice, the barber does a double-take. Still, he shrugs. “Whatever you say, Sis.”

  Chapter 6

  Secret Santa Etiquette

  When playing Secret Santa, there are a few unspoken rules that gentlefolk follow.

  The first is never to grimace should you draw a name you don’t like. Instead, squeal with delight, maybe even give a clap or a bounce, to prove the gift is worth what they are to receive, even if you’re planning on re-gifting something you got last year from some cheapskate.

  (Remember: your recipient is
watching, and will remember any frown. So will the person drawing your name, and you want to set a good example.)

  Secondly, stay within the price set for the gifts. Obviously, prior to the drawing, you can lobby for a higher price point, especially if you’ve got your heart set on something sporting a designer label.

  Seeking out the person who drew your name is uncouth. However, should you happen to run across the piece of paper with your name on it in anyone’s wastebasket, wallet, or purse—no harm, no foul.

  And finally, should the gift you receive be a disappointment, smile graciously through your pain or embarrassment.

  Payback comes later. In a dark alley. With a crowbar.

  The files on the thumbnail drive have turned Acme’s offices into a beehive of activity. Our operatives are working in teams, matching the Catholic rebels’ fully itemized munitions list to any intel regarding sales to rogue nations since Tripoli’s fall.

  Besides sixty-five anti-aircraft missiles, three Russian T-55 tanks, and nineteen SA-24 Grinch surface-to-air missile launchers, the cache also included tens of thousands of small arms, and thousands of anti-vehicle mines, tank shells, and mortars.

  The thumb drive also holds a video file. Allegra’s husband covertly taped the munitions-for-cash exchange, with two men and a woman. The image is grainy, but one is tall and thin. The other man looks to be of Middle Eastern descent.

  “Arnie, isolate the unknown suspect’s face as best as you can. When you have the cleanest digital image possible, lateral it to Emma so that she can run it through Interpol’s Universal Face Workstation.”

  Arnie nods. With a few clicks of his mouse, Emma has what she needs.

  As for the male Quorum operative, I recognize him immediately:

  He’s my soon-to-be ex-husband, Carl.

  Jack recognizes him, too. I can tell because his hands tighten into fists before he crosses his arms at his chest.

  He glances over at me in time to see my eyes glaze over with tears. When our gazes cross, it’s me who turns away first. I can’t stand the look in his eyes. He presumes my tears mean I still care.